


Sansa of Greensight

by TacitWhisky



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Starklings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 10:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20375116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TacitWhisky/pseuds/TacitWhisky
Summary: Sansa is huddling under the weirwood, knees drawn to her chest, cold and sniffling and bark scratching her back, when Jon finds her. She looks up at the crunch of boots on leaves, then buries her face back into her knees when she sees who it is. “Go away, Jon,” she sniffles into her knees, not wanting him to see how red and splotchy and horrible her face has become. “I don’t want to talk to you.”Or, what if Sansa was born with greensight?





	Sansa of Greensight

Sansa is huddling under the weirwood, knees drawn to her chest, cold and sniffling and bark scratching her back, when Jon finds her.

She looks up at the crunch of boots on leaves, then buries her face back into her knees when she sees who it is. “Go away, Jon,” she sniffles into her knees, not wanting him to see how red and splotchy and horrible her face has become. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

More leaves crunch, and through the gap peeking between her knees Sansa sees Jon’s boots stop a few paces away. “Arya said you were here,” he says, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “She said you were crying.”

“So? What does she care? She makes me cry all the time.” Arya’s always been Jon’s favorite even though Sansa doesn’t know why when she’s so stupid and wild and willful, and of course that’s the only reason why he’s here now. Sansa hiccups a bitter laugh. “Tell her she doesn’t have to worry. I’m not crying about how she scuffed my skirt this morning, and I won’t tell septa Mordane about it either.”

Tears prick Sansa’s eyes, and she buries her face deeper in her knees. “She wouldn’t believe me anyway,” she adds miserably. “She doesn’t believe anything I say.”

Though she can’t see his face, Sansa hears Jon’s frown in his voice, can picture the way his brow knits. “What do you mean?”

Sansa sniffles to keep her nose from running, wishing she had something to wipe it with other than her hand or dress. That was the kind of thing Arya would do, and even crying alone in the godswood Sansa _refuses_ to be as gross as that. Especially in front of Jon. Jon who’s only her half brother. Jon she’s always sighed pityingly about to Jeyne and Beth Cassel and made a show of feeling sorry for because he's a bastard. Jon who Sansa knows has always thought her foolish and empty headed just because she’s good at singing and sewing and dancing and didn’t like to splash in puddles like Arya.

Sansa draws her legs tighter to her, wishing she could just sink into the ground. “Nothing,” she mutters. “Just go away, Jon.”

Jon shifts his weight from one foot to the other in a way that she’s sure is him looking back to the rest of Winterfell and wishing he was there instead of here with the weepy half sister he’s never liked. “What did you mean?”

“You don’t care.”

“Yes I do.”

Sansa sniffles but doesn’t answer. After a long moment Jon’s weight shifts again, but instead of walking away he takes a cross legged seat on the floor of moss and fallen leaves a few paces away. “Is it the dreams?” He asks.

Sansa’s head shoots up, splotchy face momentarily forgotten. “How do you know about them?”

Jon shrugs. He has their father’s face: long and solemn, eyes grey and serious. “Jeyne told Robb you think you can make things happen with your dream.”

Of course Jeyne had. For as long as Sansa has known her, Jeyne has giggled and blushed whenever she saw Robb. Before she’d understood just how low born Jeyne was, Sansa had even hoped the two would marry so Jeyne could be her true sister instead of just Arya. But that had been before the dreams, before Jeyne had started looking at her sidelong and queerly when she tried to tell her about them.

Sansa buries her face in her knees again, tears welling in her eyes. “It’s not true,” she sniffs. “The things in my dreams just _happen_. Septa Mordane thinks I’m making them up, like I want to dream these things, but I’m _not_ and I _don’t_. I just told her what I saw.”

“What did you see?”

Sansa shrugs, refusing to look up. _It’s not my fault,_ she thinks miserably. She hates the dreams, wishes she would dream of nice things instead: tourneys or knights or ladies like in the songs. But those are never her dreams. Her dreams are always strange, horrible thing that sear behind her eyes for days after: a maiden with snakes weeping purple venom from her hair, an old wrinkled man with matted silver hair and long nails cackling on a throne as the smell of roasting meat filled the air with its sweetness, gaunt men with eyes blue and cold as chips of flint who spoke with voices high and harsh as the cracking of ice, ragged dead men spilling over the black charred walls of Winterfell in a wave of rotting limbs.

Sansa shivers and shrinks into herself as if by doing so she can shrink away from the dreams too. No matter how hard she tries they cling to her, a distant and desperate panic clawing at her throat painful as an unvoiced sob. It makes her distracted for days after each dream: makes her stumble over her feet with Winterfell’s master of dance as if she were clumsy as Hodor. Makes her give stupid, _stupid_ answers when maester Luwin tutors her and Arya. Turns her stitching wretched and uneven. That last is always the worst, will always have Septa Mordane come over to check her embroidery and cluck disapprovingly as though she’s bad as Arya. _You sew so beautifully when you want to,_ she sighs,_ why are you being willful today, Sansa?_

Sansa’s heart jumps into her throat each time to defend herself, but she knows better than to tell Septa Mordane the truth, tell her it’s the dreams. The Septa had snapped at her the last time she’d tried to explain, told her to stop making up stories and excuses or she’d go to lady Stark next time. More than anything in the world Sansa doesn’t want to disappoint her lady mother, and so now each time it happens Sansa looks down miserably, a painful throb in her throat, and shrugs until Septa Mordane gives a disappointed sigh and moves on to Jeyne.

Jon has drawn one knee to his chin. He perches his chin on it and looks at her thoughtfully. “Are you making them up?” He asks. “The dreams?”

Sansa shakes her head into her knees. She’s never told him, but she’s seen Jon in her dreams too. Always the same dream: a high stone tower piercing the blazing sun like a blood flecked spear, a pale faced and dark haired woman on a bed red with blood and blue with roses, and Jon a wailing babe held in her father’s arms as he kneels beside the woman and whispers soft and sad as silk a promise she cannot hear and does not understand.

“Maybe you’re a greenseer.”

Sansa peeks up at him over the top of her knees, trying to see if Jon’s making fun of her. She doesn’t think she can bear it if he is, but his eyes when she looks are dark and serious. She’d never liked that about him: how serious he always is, the way he never seemed to tease like Robb or even laugh like Theon, but in this moment Sansa finds herself absurdly grateful for his solemn seriousness. “Those are only in old Nan’s stories,” she says uncertainly.

“So? The stories must come from somewhere.”

Sansa had never thought of that. She looks down and fiddles with the hem of her skirt, flipping it back and forth and running her thumb over the pale yellow flowers she embroidered it with. She hasn’t thought of old Nan’s stories in a long time, not since she’d decided she was too old for bedtime stories, but she still remembers them: stories of a winter without end and of pale men with voices harsh as the cracking of ice just like in her dreams.

Sansa sniffles and pulls the end of her sleeves over her hands, hugs her legs to her, and sneaks Jon another glance. “You really don’t think I’m making my dreams up?”

Jon shakes his head. He crosses to her and sits with his back to the weirwood tree, shoulder against hers: solid and warm and comforting, and gives her a hesitant, encouraging smile. “What do you see in your dreams?” He asks.

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this awhile back on [my tumblr](https://tacitwhisky.tumblr.com) (which you should go follow for more stuff like this). I doubt I’ll write more though I really love this premise; mostly because I’ll probably turn it into its own original story at some point. Still, thought I’d share.
> 
> What did you all think? Please validate me.


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